


A Curious Position

by Meganekko_Misery



Category: Original Work
Genre: 19th Century, Desperation, Diapers, Omorashi, Omutsu, Piss, Unspecified Setting, Victorian, brat taming, ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:48:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27751030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meganekko_Misery/pseuds/Meganekko_Misery
Summary: After suffering a broken off engagement, Greta is summoned to visit her cousin. She soon finds there is more to this visit than she ever anticipated.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	A Curious Position

Greta stepped off the train, scanning the crowd for her Aunt Beryl. It didn’t take long to find her— Beryl was a tall woman with a striking silhouette, and today she wore a hat with a large red feather. Her Uncle Rupert, almost dwarfed by his wife, stood at her side in a brown suit. He smiled as he saw her, and Greta returned the expression with a wave. A porter helped her with her bags, and she made her way over to her relatives, relieved that the first half of her journey was done. 

“Greta, how nice to see you.” 

Aunt Beryl gave a tight smile and briefly squeezed Greta’s shoulder. Her combination of genial condescension and prim dignity had not changed a bit since the last time they met. Greta’s uncle shook her hand warmly and offered to help with her baggage. 

They trotted through the bustling crowd. A train’s horn blew as it left the station. 

“I trust your journey was pleasant enough?” Aunt Beryl asked as she showed Greta to the carriage.

“Oh, yes,” Greta lied. In truth she had spent the majority of the journey aching to relieve her bladder. Sitting once more brought her slight relief, but as soon as the horses started down the road, she had to restrain herself from asking, however nonchalantly, how long it would take for them to arrive. Greta was acutely aware that she was benefitting from their charity, and it would not do to begin her stay with complaints. 

“Is Georgina well?” Greta asked. The last time she had seen her cousin, Greta was only nine and Georgina was six. She had a vague memory of Georgina’s looks, but recalled her to be a handsome child, and could only wonder how she’d grown. A girl of her station would surely have many suitors, especially if she was pretty. 

Aunt Beryl gave another strained smile. “She is well. I’m sure she’s eager to see you.”

Aunt Beryl had always been haughty, but this cryptic manner was new. Why would Georgina be eager to see her when they had only met briefly, over ten years before? It was Greta’s understanding that Georgina was in fragile health, which frequently exempted her from family functions. She had never pried, but could not help her curiosity from piquing, especially since she would be seeing her dainty cousin very soon. 

The carriage rolled over a ditch in the road, and Greta tensed her legs. They turned onto a path through a forested hillside, among leaves of amber and ruby as far as the eye could see. Had she been in different company, Greta might have requested a stop, but Aunt Beryl already thought her family slovenly and ill bred. Greta shuddered at the thought of validating that notion before they had even reached the manor. 

She kept her hands clasped in her lap, twiddling her thumbs for something to do. She glanced at her gloved fingers, noting the place where a ring should have been, and would have been, had her best friend not betrayed her. To her credit, Aunt Beryl was kind enough not to mention the broken off engagement now, even though her last letter had been drenched in faux sympathy. Greta’s mind fell to brooding as she recalled her aunt’s words about “this unexpected turn of affairs,” and “your most unfortunate situation,” before giving way to the main substance of the letter: the request that Greta come to Carrington manor, as a companion for Georgina. 

“She is younger, and new to society, with few friends. I would greatly appreciate it if you helped her navigate some events this season. It is an overwhelming time for Georgina, and she needs a kind friend with a listening ear.” 

Help Georgina find a suitable fiance while still reeling from the rejection of her own! What a pleasant way to spend one’s fifth season as a soon to be spinster! Greta had had every intention of being a loving wife to Oliver Blackwell, but so had Arabella, and she had revealed the details of Greta’s vices just after she’d accepted Ollie’s proposal. It had been a doubly cruel blow, losing her fiance and her best friend at the same time, but she had endured it, because what else could she do? The true reason for breaking it off had never seemed to reach her aunt and uncle’s ears, or Greta was certain they would never have trusted her with Georgina. 

Reflecting these injustices occupied Greta’s mind so that she almost forgot her current predicament. The full force of her discomfort came surging up as the carriage halted before the manor, which was as large and lovely as she remembered.

A footman held the door for them as they stepped inside. Greta was hardly able to take in the beauty of the decor or the servant's fine livery, so much was the strain on her bladder. Her aunt turned to her with a hostess’s smile and said the words Greta had been waiting to hear.

“I suppose you're tired from your journey. Fisker will show you to your room. Dinner will be at eight o’ clock.”

Greta nodded and allowed herself to be shown up the long, tapering staircase. It was covered in black velveteen, and illuminated by a stunning chandelier. Was that a sly hint of sneer on Fisker's lips? Greta jerked her head away in disgust. He was doubtlessly used to showing more important guests to their quarters, but for the time being, he would be stuck with plain, old, unmarried Greta, from a fading family south of here. Melancholy threatened to take over once more, but they soon arrived at her bedroom. It was prettily decorated, with wine colored walls and scarlett bed curtains. A shelf was placed above the writing desk, displaying an assortment of trinkets and a vase of fresh roses. She thanked Fisker and shut the door, writhing in discomfort for a few moments as she divested herself of her gloves. She didn’t bother with her hat, practically diving under the bed to retrieve the chamberpot. Instead of cold porcelain, she caught a warm, writhing arm, and a moment later a human form shot out from underneath the bed and tackled Greta to the floor, pinning her by her wrists. As she struggled to free herself, Greta was only half aware of the sudden pressure on her abdomen, and jets of urine spurting into her clothes.

“Welcome, Miss Greta!” The girl shrieked. 

Great made a noise of furious protest, and flung the offending maiden off of her. 

“What— what are you doing?” She shakily got to her feet. Another dribble ran down her legs before she was able to regain her composure.

“Don’t you remember me?!” The girl demanded, and all at once, Greta did. The bright blue eyes, the curly chestnut hair— it was Georgina, all grown up. Well, as grown up as one could be, while still tackling houseguests. 

“You gave me quite— quite a shock,” Greta stammered. 

“I thought so!” Georgina said proudly. Then she laughed, a grating, obnoxious sound so at odds with her pink cheeks and ladylike countenance. “Would you like me to show you around? You must be eager to see the house. You haven’t been here in so long! You’re much taller than when we last met.” 

Greta squeezed her thighs again, willing her bladder to stay calm. 

“I’d like to remove my hat first,” Greta replied.

“Oh, of course.” Georgina put her hands behind her back and assumed an air of patience. 

“I’ll be just a minute.” 

Greta moved to the mirror and extracted her hat pin. She cast a look at Georgina and realized, with dismay, that she wasn’t going to leave. The involuntary release had hardly relieved her discomfort, and her bladder protested furiously against this harsh treatment. But Greta’s tongue became tied when she tried to find the words to ask for a moment to herself. Instead of making the simple request to her cousin, Greta removed her hat, smiled at Georgina, and told her to lead the way. 

“My room is in the tower,” Georgina said, as they stepped into the hall. 

“Just as I remember,” Greta replied.

They walked up a short but winding staircase to Georgina’s room. Halfway up, Greta started to tremble in earnest. She tried to squeeze her legs under her skirt, but only succeeded in losing her balance. She clutched the handrail for support, and Georgina peeked over her shoulder.

“Do be careful,” she warned, and something about her tone made Greta seethe. She had been a guest for all of five minutes, and already she was looking forward to returning home! But she simply nodded, straightened, and made her way up the stairwell. 

They reached Georgina’s room, as prettily decorated as Greta’s, but with creams and petal pink instead of deep crimson. However agonizing it had been to climb the stairs, it was worse to stand still and pretend to admire her surroundings. There was no chair for Greta to sit in— not that she would presume to take a seat uninvited— but knowing that she would be standing here for as long as Georgina desired made her cross, and further exacerbated her discomfort. She tensed her legs under her skirt. Georgina did not seem to notice, busy rummaging in the drawer of her elegant white desk.

“I love the view from the tower room. I like to sit in the window seat and watch people going by. Sometimes, I try to spit on them, but I never know if I hit or miss. Would you like to see my drawings?” 

“Certainly.” Greta replied, hoping the strain in her voice was less audible to Georgina than it was to her. For heaven’s sakes, the girl had not even asked about her journey! And what was this nonsense about spitting on passer-bys?

“Sit on the bed with me.”

Greta did so, gratefully. She squirmed a little on the soft mattress, peering at the sketchbook Georgina held. 

There were pencil and ink drawings of birds, plants, scenery, and the kitchen cat. Some were sketchy and some fully rendered, but all were impressive. Greta could play piano and embroider well, but she had never had a neat enough hand for this sort of art. Georgina did not let her up until the last page had been turned, at which Greta took the opportunity to ask for the time. 

“I must dress for dinner,” she explained. The dressing gong sounded throughout the house a moment later, as if in agreement.

“Oh, of course.” Georgina said, finally showing a modicum of awareness. Greta nodded, turned, and practically fled the room, hobbling down the stairwell once more. She had to stop and grip herself tightly through the skirt of her traveling dress, one hand on the rail and one between her legs. She nearly crashed into a servant, but wasted no more words on her than a quick “pardon me,” as she ran downstairs. Urgency overtook her as she entered the hall, and she struggled to suppress the stream of urine that released itself as she approached her bedroom. She darted inside, locked the door, and clutched herself once more. Greta was beyond her limit and bursting as she fell down by the bed, searching for the chamberpot with her free hand. Her heart sank when she failed to locate it, and she stuck her head under the frilly bedskirt. No chamber pot. And there was no time to go and find one.

She scanned the room and saw the shelf full of decorations, most notably the oriental vase of roses. She seized it, dumped the flowers on the floor, and hiked up her skirt. Her hands shook as she positioned the vase, urine trickling down her thighs and into her stockings. It called for some willpower to keep herself standing with the porcelain beneath her skirts; Greta’s legs trembled so violently she feared her knees would buckle. After a few moments, her heart slowed slightly and she relaxed, nearly to the point of bliss. But Greta was a practical creature, and before that point arrived, she began to worry if the vase was large enough to serve its new purpose. In her head, Greta tried to compare the volume of the vase with that of a chamberpot, but her mind was still whirling with fevered anxiety. At any rate, it hardly mattered— she was well past the point of being able to stop, and her stream spilled freely into the china. While contemplating this, Greta suddenly became aware of another noise. Someone was knocking on the door, and had been doing so for a short while. 

“Miss? Is this your room?” A servant called. Probably the maid, come to help her dress. 

Greta froze, holding the vase as still as she could. A flush rose to her cheeks and her dark eyes flitted about the room. There were flowers and water strewn on the burgundy carpet, and a few damp stains of another liquid. One of the decorations— a figurine of a lady with a parasol— lay decapitated on the floor, where Greta had accidentally knocked it. And Greta was still pissing. 

“One moment, if you please,” Greta called, hoping her voice did not shake. 

She forced the remaining liquid out as quickly as she could, and wondered if the maid was listening through the door. Greta crouched to the floor and placed the pot carefully down, briefly marveling at how full it was. The vase was smaller than a chamber pot, and filled to an inch below the mouth. It would be difficult to put back on the shelf without making more of a mess. Put it back on the shelf! That was the only practical solution of course, but acknowledging this did not stop shame from washing over Greta as she beheld the evidence of her recent struggle. What would Aunt Beryl say if she knew how Greta had desecrated her possessions? She’d call her filthy, a slattern, a beastly girl— not even a girl, a wretched woman, well on her way to heartily deserved spinsterhood. These deprecating thoughts weighed on her as she carefully replaced the vase, then gathered up the roses, and placed them one by one in the cooling urine, for there was no other place for them to go. The figurine and her head were hidden under a pillow, to be tossed down the privy at a later date, where they could keep company with Greta’s pride and self regard. 

Having cleared the room and composed herself somewhat, Greta opened the door. The maid wrinkled her nose upon entering, but Greta stood still, practically daring her to remark on the smell. 

“My things are in the trunk,” she indicated. The maid, who introduced herself as Lacey Cartwright, set to unpacking it while Greta stripped out of her clothes. She hesitated before removing her underthings, knowing they were visibly damp in the obvious area, but there was no helping it— she would not go to dinner smelling of piss.

Greta went to the washstand and found a cloth in the cupboard. She sponged herself down while Cartwright unboxed her taffeta dinner dress, rustling it behind her. How nice it was to be attended to after a long journey! To have her petticoats smoothed, her dress buttoned down her back, and her hair brushed and repinned. After dressing, Greta felt herself a new woman, and descended the staircase in considerably better spirits.

Greta entered the dining room and did her utmost not to stare at the lofty ceiling, richly decorated with chandeliers and gilding. The room was long, with elegant amber walls that seemed to glow faintly around her. For a large gathering, a lengthy table could be brought to this room, but for now, a shorter one served. It had room for eight people, but a party of only three. Greta looked at the place settings and saw that one was missing. 

“Is Georgina unwell.?” Greta asked.

“Due to her delicate constitution, Georgina frequently takes her meals in her room,” Aunt Beryl replied. It sounded rehearsed.

“Oh. I see.”

Greta put as much sympathy into that reply as she could muster, but secretly, she was glad. After Georgina’s rudeness this afternoon, Greta was in no hurry to see her again. But dinner was a slow, awkward, affair, and she felt, once or twice, that Georgina’s antics might have made it more bearable. Nowhere was this more so than when Uncle Rupert made the blunder of asking about Greta’s engagement, having apparently forgotten that it was broken off. This cruelty was, at least, unintentional. Aunt Beryl’s remarks were cutting and deliberate, crafted to put Greta in her place and keep her there. She’d always had a sharp tongue behind that gracious smile, but tonight, she was utterly without mercy. At the end of dessert, when Greta thought she’d be dismissed, Beryl announced that they were withdrawing, and beckoned Greta with a glance. Beryl led her to the drawing room and sat on the chaise, leaving Greta the matching armchair. Despite it’s plush cushions, Greta held herself as rigidly as if she’d been seated on a patch of nettles. 

“Greta,” Aunt Beryl smiled, “I wish to start by saying that it was so good of you to come.”

Greta had no notion of what was in store for her, but her heart still sank.

“I am going to tell you something that must be kept absolutely private. Listen well, and do not interrupt.” 

Over the next quarter of an hour , Aunt Beryl told Greta an astonishing story.

Georgina had been raised, for the first few years of her life, in a perfectly ordinary and proper fashion. At six years old, she was a delightful, obedient child, who played with dolls, and picked wildflowers with her nursemaid, and tottered along behind her big brother, who enlisted in the Navy a few years later. This, Greta remembered well. But just a few months after Greta and Georgina had spent their first (and only) summer together, a man had come, and convinced the soft hearted nursemaid to let him see Georgina— for she was in fact, his child, not Rupert’s. The nursemaid, who’s kindness extended not only to the family who employed her, but to obscure fathers of illegitimate children, had brought Georgina to meet him. He had patted her head, and given her sweets, and called her his little angel. When Georgina reported this nice man to her mother, Beryl had immediately interrogated the nursemaid, discovered the betrayal, and turned her, sobbing, out of the house. She had sent a strongly worded letter to Georgina’s father, her former lover, ordering him never to come see her or her child again. And as for Georgina, Beryl made her swear never to tell anything of the secret meeting.

But from that day on, Georgina was a changeling. Deprived of the one who had nursed and mothered her, Georgina began to throw fits of screaming. She chopped her hair with scissors. She broke her dolls and flung the remains at anyone who tried to check her misbehavior. Beryl would have punished these infractions most severely, only Georgina, with all her seven year old fury, had the upper hand— any time Beryl threatened to do so much as dock her sweets, Georgina would run in the direction of Rupert’s office, and Beryl, sick with fear of his finding out, would stop her, and promise her anything in the world. Rupert was a simple minded man, and always assumed his fretful little child simply missed him. He frequently indulged her with these visits, and Beryl was forced to endure them, standing stiffly outside his study and shuddering at the thought of his finding out. It was not Rupert’s feelings she was concerned about of course— but the thought of being divorced! Of Being known to the world as a lady of easy virtue, that was more than Beryl could bear. And Georgina, clever child, had never stopped using this against her, despite Beryl’s insistence that revealing such a secret would spell ruin for Georgina as well. “Nonsense, mama,” Georgina would simply reply. “If papa leaves you, my father will come for me.” She meant, of course, her true father, Beryl’s ex-lover, whom she had met just the once, but who had been solidified in her mind as a kind and good man. Beryl could never make her see reason, and had been forced to allow a series of egregious behaviors to take root. To Greta’s horror, she learned that Georgina ate with her fingers, rested her elbows on the table, and refused to entertain guests of any kind. She was flighty, immature, and had never once completed an embroidery sampler, or knitted so much as a doily. The worst offense was her refusal to use the privy. 

At this revelation, Greta could only cock her head and utter a confused sound. Before she could form a question, it was revealed to her that Georgina had been diapered all this time, something that neither her father nor brother knew about. When Greta pressed further, Aunt Beryl became tight-lipped, and only assured her that she would see the full extent of Georgina’s slovenliness in due time. Greta neglected to mention that she had seen some of it already. But there was one question she could not help but ask, blushing as she inquired. Beryl replied in her cool, aristocratic manner, that:

“Up until three weeks ago, a maid attended to my daughter. However, that servant recently married, and I have been in charge of the task since she left. I am most grateful that you came, Greta.”

“Surely...you do not expect me to...?”

Aunt Beryl’s expression instantly silenced her.

“I do not believe you are in a position to argue, my dear. You have little money, no friends, and no marriage prospects. I am offering you a comfortable position. If you are able to convince my daughter to start living life as a lady— indeed, as a civilized being— you will not be tasked with any of the unpleasantness you wish to avoid. If you fail to do so, I suspect you will be miserable. And mark my words, Greta, if you reveal any part of what I’ve told you, to anyone, I will make sure that you never look upon any of your family again, and that you die in the street a filthy, penniless, whore. That is all, and you may go. 

Greta’s heart shot to her throat. She knew. Beryl knew. A protest died on Greta’s lips. One more knowing look from her aunt was all it took.

“I understand, Aunt Beryl.”

Greta quietly exited the drawing room, and walked, mechanically, to her own.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> "A Curious Position" is a work in progress. If you have questions, comments, or suggestions for later chapters, please let me know!


End file.
